


Firefly

by azephirin



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bars and Pubs, Comment Fic, F/M, Mississippi, Original Characters - Freeform, POV First Person, POV Original Character, South
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-18
Updated: 2010-05-18
Packaged: 2017-10-09 13:46:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/88124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/azephirin/pseuds/azephirin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>You're obviously not from here.</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	Firefly

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [](http://elizah-jane.livejournal.com/profile)[**elizah_jane**](http://elizah-jane.livejournal.com/)'s [SPN CuddleCommentFic meme](http://elizah-jane.livejournal.com/80572.html) and originally posted [here](http://elizah-jane.livejournal.com/80572.html?view=1214652#t1214652).

Fuck what everybody's saying, it's not a blown oil well—it's a goddamned hellmouth. Ask anybody on the coast, we could tell them that, but of course BP isn't about to seek the advice of some dirty coast rats. Before he retired, my daddy was a rig man and did some hunting on the side, and I'm not an expert or anything, but I can tell you straight-up that dropping a big-ass box over a deep-sea hellmouth isn't going to do dick. But I'm just a bartender, and my job is to pour the beers and break up the fights for all the people in town to deal with this.

It's about an hour from closing, midweek so it's not too crazy, and I'm getting a head start on cleanup. There's a guy at the end of the bar, scruffy, wearing a leather jacket even in this heat. He catches my eye, and I say, "You want another Lazy Magnolia?" That's the local beer, brewed about 45 minutes from here out in the Kiln.

He shakes his head. His face looks like he's trying to leer at me, but he's just too tired to do it up right. "You got any of that sweet tea vodka, ma'am?"

"Dude, I am not old enough to be _ma'am._ And I don't have any of that Firefly or Jeremiah Weed that everybody's drinking these days, but I can make you up something with some real fresh-brewed sweet tea."

"You've got sweet tea behind your bar?"

"You're obviously not from here."

He laughs. "Guilty as charged. So how about some of that sweet tea with some vodka in it?"

"I can do that," I say, "or I can give it to you like I drink it, with Maker's Mark."

"I'll trust somebody from the land of sweet tea," he says.

"Damn right," I tell him, and I mix him up a sweet tea with Maker's Mark.

Finally everybody's out—everybody except Leather Jacket, who helps me clean and mop like he's done this before. "You work in a bar?" I ask.

"I've worked in just about every job you can have. Right now I'm here because of the gusher."

I raise an eyebrow. "You don't look like somebody from BP or the EPA."

He shakes his head. "I'm not. My partner and I, we're investigating a...different angle on it."

I don't come out and say, "You mean the fact that the damn thing's a hellmouth?" because he might mean any number of things apart from what's actually going on, but I cross my fingers and hope that maybe he's here doing something that will actually keep all of us from being drowned in oil and demons.

I turn off the lights and lock the place, and suddenly he's a little awkward, neck-scratching and foot-shuffling, rather than scruffy and suave. "I, uh, I can give you a ride home if you don't want to walk this late."

My mama taught me better than to say, _Like hell am I getting into a car with some guy I don't know,_ plus the truth is that I live just a few blocks from here and, hellmouths in the Gulf aside, nothing ever happens in this town. "It's cool," I tell him. "I don't live that far away. I usually just walk."

"Well, uh, would you let me walk you home? I didn't get raised with a whole lot of manners, but, uh, there are certain kinds of things you do for a lady."

I almost laugh, because I work in a bar and my daddy was a hunter and I've got throwing knives in my boot and my hip pocket and aside from my name and my accent I'm about the farthest thing from a lady there is. But this guy's kind of dorky-suave, and anyway the company'll be nice. "Alright," I say. "You can walk me home."

When we get there, before I go inside, I give him a hug because he seems like he needs it. He smells a little sweaty because of wearing that jacket in ninety-degree heat, but mostly he smells clean, good, soapy, the way I like my men to smell. He hugs me back, hands staying completely appropriate, and says, "You smell good."

I have to laugh. "No, I don't. I smell like I've been in a bar with barely-working AC all night. But thanks for saying so." I say good night and pull back. I'm about to turn around and go into the house, but then I decide to add, "If you want to come by tomorrow, maybe, I'm off early."

"How early is early?"

"Around eight."

"I think I might just be there around that time," he says, and he's grinning a little. "But how'll I know who to ask for if you don't tell me your name?"

Oh. Right. "It's Mary Alice," I say. "Yours?"

"Dean."

We shake hands, and I kind of want to hug him again, but that would be inappropriate. He kisses me on the cheek, and then I go inside. Tomorrow morning, I'll ask Daddy if he knows any hunters named Dean.


End file.
